Read Online Dynamite Fishermen by Preston Fleming - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Preston Fleming
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that they’re all in the lobby or out in front. Still, if it were up to me, I would go downstairs together and try to convince them I misunderstood their Arabic. What do you say?”
Abu Ramzi cracked open a pistachio and popped the kernel into his mouth. He appeared unruffled, even amused, by the visits of the young militiamen. “The matter is not important,” he replied, taking another pistachio. “I have experience with boys like these. Let us finish our discussion quickly so that I will not be late in returning to my unit. Then we will leave together, as you propose.”
Twenty minutes later Prosser tore out the pages of his notebook containing his notes and watched them swirl around the sides of the toilet bowl before disappearing down the drain. By now he had memorized the high points of the debriefing and could reconstruct the rest. Next he cleaned off the table, closed the windows, and switched off the fan. Before they stepped out into the hallway, he quizzed Abu Ramzi once more on the time and place for their next meeting. Then they rode the elevator to the ground floor.
As they emerged Prosser spotted the concierge standing across the foyer with the two camouflage-clad fighters who had earlier knocked on his door. The two civilians who accompanied them approached from the left, where they had been lurking at the foot of the stairs. Their rifles were held waist-high with muzzles leveled at Prosser and Abu Ramzi. The concierge identified Abu Ramzi to the militiamen as the man in the blue pullover he had seen entering the building.
“So now you are together,” the civilian declared triumphantly, as if he had known it from the start.
“Together?” Prosser repeated in Arabic, as if slow to comprehend. “Of course we are together.”
“But when I asked you before, you said you were alone,” the Lebanese retorted, taken aback by the contradiction. “Twice you said it. Now you claim this man was with you?”
“Excuse me, but I do not understand what you are saying,” Prosser lied. “Speak slowly, please.”
The others stared at him, momentarily bewildered. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating and would not resume until the lead militiaman spoke again. But before he could answer, Abu Ramzi stepped forward to address the man in a confidential tone. Within moments, the older officer’s air of relaxed authority began to deflate the youth’s self-importance. Soon the young militiaman stopped asking questions and found himself answering them instead. He listened to the Palestinian with eyes averted, his replies reduced to monosyllables.
Although Prosser could not make out much of what Abu Ramzi said—Abu Ramzi put his arm around the militiaman’s shoulder and spoke earnestly into his ear—it was clear that his worst fears were not to be realized. In less than two minutes of one-sided conversation, the Palestinian had maneuvered the young militiaman into apologizing for the apparent misunderstanding and inviting the two visitors to stay for a glass of tea.
Abu Ramzi declined the invitation with a relaxed wave of his hand and wished the militiamen farewell, shaking hands with all four of them on his way out. Prosser did the same and then followed Abu Ramzi into the long late-afternoon shadows. As they approached the corner, Abu Ramzi turned to Prosser with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
“It was not so difficult as I expected,” he said with evident self-satisfaction. “They received a complaint from a neighbor about an armed stranger entering the building with a foreigner and were obliged to investigate. A routine incident.”
“What on earth did you tell them?” Prosser asked, taking a deep breath for the first time since heading down the stairs into the lobby.
“Perhaps it is better not to discuss it,” the agent said with a wry smile.
“Don’t give me that, Abu Ramzi. What did you say?”
“You will not be insulted?”
“Of course I won’t be insulted. Why should I? Out with
Abu Ramzi cracked open a pistachio and popped the kernel into his mouth. He appeared unruffled, even amused, by the visits of the young militiamen. “The matter is not important,” he replied, taking another pistachio. “I have experience with boys like these. Let us finish our discussion quickly so that I will not be late in returning to my unit. Then we will leave together, as you propose.”
Twenty minutes later Prosser tore out the pages of his notebook containing his notes and watched them swirl around the sides of the toilet bowl before disappearing down the drain. By now he had memorized the high points of the debriefing and could reconstruct the rest. Next he cleaned off the table, closed the windows, and switched off the fan. Before they stepped out into the hallway, he quizzed Abu Ramzi once more on the time and place for their next meeting. Then they rode the elevator to the ground floor.
As they emerged Prosser spotted the concierge standing across the foyer with the two camouflage-clad fighters who had earlier knocked on his door. The two civilians who accompanied them approached from the left, where they had been lurking at the foot of the stairs. Their rifles were held waist-high with muzzles leveled at Prosser and Abu Ramzi. The concierge identified Abu Ramzi to the militiamen as the man in the blue pullover he had seen entering the building.
“So now you are together,” the civilian declared triumphantly, as if he had known it from the start.
“Together?” Prosser repeated in Arabic, as if slow to comprehend. “Of course we are together.”
“But when I asked you before, you said you were alone,” the Lebanese retorted, taken aback by the contradiction. “Twice you said it. Now you claim this man was with you?”
“Excuse me, but I do not understand what you are saying,” Prosser lied. “Speak slowly, please.”
The others stared at him, momentarily bewildered. He felt as if his heart had stopped beating and would not resume until the lead militiaman spoke again. But before he could answer, Abu Ramzi stepped forward to address the man in a confidential tone. Within moments, the older officer’s air of relaxed authority began to deflate the youth’s self-importance. Soon the young militiaman stopped asking questions and found himself answering them instead. He listened to the Palestinian with eyes averted, his replies reduced to monosyllables.
Although Prosser could not make out much of what Abu Ramzi said—Abu Ramzi put his arm around the militiaman’s shoulder and spoke earnestly into his ear—it was clear that his worst fears were not to be realized. In less than two minutes of one-sided conversation, the Palestinian had maneuvered the young militiaman into apologizing for the apparent misunderstanding and inviting the two visitors to stay for a glass of tea.
Abu Ramzi declined the invitation with a relaxed wave of his hand and wished the militiamen farewell, shaking hands with all four of them on his way out. Prosser did the same and then followed Abu Ramzi into the long late-afternoon shadows. As they approached the corner, Abu Ramzi turned to Prosser with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
“It was not so difficult as I expected,” he said with evident self-satisfaction. “They received a complaint from a neighbor about an armed stranger entering the building with a foreigner and were obliged to investigate. A routine incident.”
“What on earth did you tell them?” Prosser asked, taking a deep breath for the first time since heading down the stairs into the lobby.
“Perhaps it is better not to discuss it,” the agent said with a wry smile.
“Don’t give me that, Abu Ramzi. What did you say?”
“You will not be insulted?”
“Of course I won’t be insulted. Why should I? Out with
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